


Songs Beneath the Stars

by startraveller776



Series: Captain Swan Bingo [1]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Cruise Ship, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Romance, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-08 09:48:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26970007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/startraveller776/pseuds/startraveller776
Summary: Under the glittering midnight sky, she appears like an angel in his hour of need. Perhaps she needs him too.
Relationships: Captain Hook | Killian Jones/Emma Swan
Series: Captain Swan Bingo [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1968148
Comments: 16
Kudos: 42





	Songs Beneath the Stars

**Author's Note:**

> **A/N:** This was written for the prompt "Cruise Ship" on my Captain Swan Bingo card, and it turned out a bit different than I expected, lol. I hope you enjoy!

**SONGS BENEATH THE STARS**

He gives her a tacit glance when she slips into the private lounge area for cruise staff, carrying a bottle of Corona. It’s after midnight and the sea glitters in an undulating mirror to the stars above. She sits on the end of the outdoor couch, folding her slim legs beneath her as she watches him play the worn Gibson on his thigh. It’s a morose ballad, one to suit his mood, and the cool breeze carries the minor notes off into oblivion.

He doesn’t want to talk, not tonight, and she seems to sense it. They shouldn’t, anyway. He’s the staff captain—second in command of this ship after his brother—and she’s one of the many talents come to delight the passengers. Sometimes he slips away from the bridge to watch one of her shows. There’s something in her voice, even belting cheesy 90’s mash-ups with the cast, that makes him feel like she understands loss, that maybe she’s as anchorless as he is.

There have been women—performers like her—who’ve shared his bed to make the nights a little less oppressive, but as much as her beauty makes his throat dry, as much as he considers what those pale pink lips might taste like as he knots his fingers in her flaxen locks, he can’t bring himself to ask if she’d be interested in that kind of mutually beneficial arrangement. He doesn’t want to. Because something tells him that it wouldn’t end up as casual as his other dalliances. He’s too drawn to her. So, he makes a clever quip or two with a flirtatious wink when a break in duty allows him to attend one of the late night soirees for the staff and crew. He watches her interact with other cast members, with the cruise director who is his best friend. He’d be jealous of the latter if the man wasn’t utterly smitten with his own fiance.

He finishes the song and starts another, and it’s a few strains before he realizes he’s chosen a tune that makes him think of her instead of another lost to him years ago. This is a song of unspoken pasts and uncertain futures. He loved this seafaring life for a time, the freedom it afforded him, the revolving door of companions to scratch that itch when it became too loud to ignore, the parties, the rum, the _forgetting_. But it’s wearing thin.

He doesn’t know what he wants anymore.

She hums a few bars, then begins to sing—at first, a gentle melody that he can barely hear above the waves crashing against the bow, but her voice builds with each stanza. He falls into harmony with her, and his heart trips a beat when she scoots closer and leans toward him, careful not to impede the instrument he works by a long familiar touch. His gaze locks with hers as they build to a crescendo together.

He has only vague memories of his childhood before his mother succumbed to cancer, flashes of the church she dragged her sons to in the vain hope they’d turn out better than their father. A snippet of one those dreaded Sunday sermons comes to him—an exhortation on “becoming one with one another.” He thinks he finally understands the concept now as his voice threads seamlessly with hers to create a stunning, yearning tapestry. His pulse races with a tinge of fear. With a desire that transcends the body.

The perpetual hollow behind his sternum is somehow _less_.

After the breeze carries off the last note, she gives him a soft smile. “I didn’t know you could sing.”

“Aye,” he murmurs. Here’s where he makes a comment laced with innuendo, to keep their conversation light, to hide the splintered darkness inside of him. But the steps to this dance are too tedious to plod tonight. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.” That _anyone_ knows about him.

She doesn’t respond right away, instead searches his face with a gaze that seems to lance through him. She looks like an angel, wind making a halo out of her pale hair, skin a stunning alabaster, though he can see the light dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose and on her cheeks. In the suffocating stillness of his cabin, he’s wondered where else on her flesh he might discover such lovely constellations. By them, could he navigate to paradise?

She takes his breath away—the siren who has the power to drown this sailor. The angel in his hour of need. Both and neither.

She holds her bottle to him in silent offering, and he takes it, though it isn’t his preferred brew. He knocks back a swig of the lemony sweet lager before passing it back to her, his gaze trailing the tip of the bottle as it briefly meets her lips. She sets the drink on the deck and makes herself comfortable next to him as he absently strums a few chords.

“I was warned about you when I came aboard,” she says.

He grins without looking at her. He knows the reputation he has, and it’s served him well enough, even if it's far from the truth. “And here you are, treading in turbulent waters.” The words aren’t spoken in jest, but his own admonition to add to the others she’s surely received. He’s not a project any woman should take on.

Though a part of him wants her to.

She breathes a quiet laugh. “It’s bullshit, isn’t it?”

He glances at her then, brow canted in confusion. “What, love?”

“This charming, dangerous swagger you have.” She wets her lips before asking, “Do you ever get tired wearing the mask?”

He stares at her for a protracted beat. It would be so easy to deny her allegation, but there’s something glinting in her eyes—a vulnerability, as if she is as desperate for this confession as he is to make it. As if he’s not the only one clinging with a white-knuckled grip to an armored facade. “Aye.”

Relief flutters across her gaze. “Me too,” she whispers.

With those two words, he’s not alone for the first time in years.

He slides the guitar off his lap, props it against the arm of the deck couch. The pleather cushions creak as he leans toward her, twining his fingers in her curls. They’re as soft as he imagined. She murmurs his name before tipping forward and pressing her mouth over his. Her lips are a caress, an unhurried exploration, and though he tilts his head, inviting her to deepen the kiss, he’s content to let her lead this expedition. Because it’s something more profound than physical appetite. Because he’s more than a little afraid of letting go, of laying himself completely bare for the heaven he doesn’t deserve.

But then, isn’t it already too late?

She pulls back and, eyes closed, rests her forehead against his. “That was…”

“Aye,” he breathes, equally inarticulate. He doesn’t have the vocabulary to describe what’s just transpired between them. Words are too small, too clinical. So he brushes a thumb against her smooth cheek and captures her mouth again.

He was right. This isn’t casual, but oh, it feels like coming home—like the peace and safety he knew once as a little boy basking in the sound of his mother’s carefree laughter. It’s long-dormant passion yawning awake, pooling warmly in his chest. It’s wonder and awe, hunger and ache.

It’s _belonging_.

When he breaks off the kiss for want of air, he doesn’t cheapen the moment with an invitation to his cabin. Instead, he wraps an arm around her, tugs her to him until her head rests gently on his shoulder, and she comes willingly, melting against him as if relaxing for the first time since coming aboard this casino on the sea.

“What’s England like?” she asks.

The question is deceptively light-hearted, but he catches the real inquiry hidden beneath. _Are you like me, a poorly-mended broken soul?_ A startling revelation follows on its heels: he’ll give her whatever she wants. Even though her contract will come to an eventual end, and he can’t imagine that she’ll want to make the ocean her home as he has. Even though this is a recipe for inevitable misery.

He’ll pay the debt when it comes due. It’s worth feeling almost whole for a few short months.

“It’s cold, wet, and dreary,” he says, playing with a lock of her silky hair. “I don’t miss it.”

She sighs. “I feel the same way about Boston.” She doesn’t expound further, and that’s fine. This new dance between them is a languid one, and there’s time enough to unlock the unseemly truths they’ve expertly buried.

She asks what other songs he knows, and they get lost in the music together.

When he shows up for duty in the morning looking as exhausted as he feels, his brother assumes that he’s spent the night in his cups, commemorating a tragic anniversary. He unconsciously rubs at the tattoo on his forearm but doesn’t correct the captain.

He wants to keep his angel to himself for a little while longer.

**~FIN~**

**Author's Note:**

>  **A/N:** Thank you so much for reading! I'd love to hear your thoughts if you've got a minute. Also, come visit me on Tumblr: therealstartraveller776.


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